Whispers in the Dark
by angharabbit
Summary: Night after the fall, Molly returns to her flat to find someone waiting in the dark. Short, simple. Firm T rating.
1. Chapter 1

Molly came home to her apartment after midnight. There was blood on her clothes, and her hair was dishevelled. She had now been awake for nearly two days, two days in which everything in her world had changed, and would continue to change.

Her fingers fumbled with the key at the lock. She was too exhausted, too numbed by the grief of others, to think about what might wait on the other side of the unremarkable beige door. Giving up, she let her hand drop, the key sticking in the lock. Her bag fell off of her shoulder onto the floor. She rested her head in her hands for a moment, nauseated by the smell of metal on her skin. Taking a deep breath she picked up the bag and attempted the key again, but the latch opened from the inside.

The door opened a crack, revealing nothing. The darkness was unbroken in the small flat, the curtains drawn to block out the streetlamps. His pale hand appeared in the breach, bare wrist and forearm reminding her forcefully of the vulnerable, desperate hours they had shared the night before. His fingers were cool on hers, guiding her in. She allowed him to lead her, seeing nothing once the door shut, closing out the electric glow from the corridor.

His hand slide up to her elbow, up her shoulder, the mate falling urgently on her other side to hold her towards the sound of his thumping heart. She heard unsteady breathing with not even a shadow to mark the source. She could feel his breath on her cheeks, smell his cigarettes and scotch. The slim bulge of his rolled shirtsleeves pressed against her jacket. She could feel the tension, the coiled energy in his muscles radiating through the fabric where they touched.

"Are they safe," he asked in a whisper with a tremor that evoked a last squeeze of pathos from Molly's heart, an organ she thought that had already been numbed.

"Yes, all of them. John refuses to go back to 221B, though, nor is he speaking to anyone. His sister came to pick him up, I called her with his mobile this afternoon," she responded mechanically, keeping her voice as quiet as his.

"Did he go with her?"

"Yes, without a word." There was a hiss, his palms slipped back d own her arms to cup her elbows.

"That's bad." A long pause followed, and Molly wasn't sure how long he was going to hold her there in the pitch black flat. Finally he dropped his head down to rest his forehead against hers. While his hands were cold his face was feverish. She was too tired to analyze the gesture. "But they're safe and alive," he concluded, relief clear in his voice.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing serious. Are you hurt?"

"No, why would I be?"

"You reek of blood," he said as if he was only now identifying the odour. She raised a hand to touch where her ponytail lay over her breast. It was sticky in places.

"It's yours, from the pints we drew last night. John had it all over his hands and clothes."

She had been touched more, and done more touching, in the last couple of days than in the years since she lost her father. Hugging, hand squeezing, reassuring pats on the arm given or received by John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Preparing Sherlock for his 'death' had been a strange intimacy, physically and emotionally. She wasn't ready to think of it all yet, but now she found herself someone that Sherlock appeared comfortable touching, like Mrs Hudson.

Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness too slowly, and she could not make out his face. She lifted a heavy hand to his cheek and felt cool dampness against the warm skin.

"They're safe," he repeated faintly, then crumbled to his knees. She felt his body crash in hers, his head knocking the wind out of her as his hands slid limply down her body. She stumbled with his momentum, but Sherlock caught himself, fighting for control, and steadied them both. He pressed his face back into her shirt buttons, breathing heavily, clutching at her waist.

"I owe you their lives, Molly. I owe you my life."

He released her, on his feet and away from her so suddenly it left her cold. She could not see him.

His voice came from the other side of the room. "Name anything. Anything."

"I want nothing from you, Sherlock. My help doesn't have a price," she told the darkness, catching her breath.

"There must be something that you could want from m-" He stopped mid-word.

She could hear him approach, taking deep measured breaths.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper." His lips found hers carefully. He was hesitant, tasting her, testing the form of her. Inexperienced as he was purported to be, Molly found his slow, gentle kiss stirring. His hands found the curve of her hips, drawing her nearer to him. Her heart pounding in her ears, she broke away and stepped back, smoothing her blouse down.

"Sherlock, please don't feel the need to prostitute yourself out of gratitude. You're not thinking rationally, you're tired and worked up."

When he finally spoke his voice was deep and rich, _aroused_.

"I've never kissed a woman before."

"That was your first?"

He cleared his throat. She blushed unseen.

"How did I do?"

"Fine. But don't."

"I thought that would please you."

"A kiss out of obligation? Don't pretend you know things about emotions, Sherlock. I'm happy you're alive. If you're still here in the morning we'll talk more then." There was more heat in the words than she intended, and he caught her hand before she got more than a couple of steps away.

"Wait," he whispered. "I've offended you."

She didn't respond, her hand limp in his.

"Yes, I've offended you. Why?"

"A kiss is not a gift, Sherlock. It's what people do when they're attracted to each other, when they want to express affection. It's extremely personal. You don't just hand them out like tie clips and cuff links for a job well done."

She made to leave him again, but he drew her back to him.

"Well if that is your definition," he murmured, finding her lips again. This time she let him gather her to him, let him explore her with his clever mouth. Her exhausted body was starting a slow burn.

"This is wrong," she protested weakly, leaning her head against his chest to catch her breath. "You're a virgin. You don't want this. You don't want me this way. I know you don't."

He began pressing his mouth down her neck, behind her ear, along her collar. His curly hair tickled her skin.

"Don't I?" He whispered into the hollow under her jaw.

"You're in shock!" She gasped, feeling overwhelmed with longtime want for him, but sincerely doubting his desire. He took her hands and put them palm down on his chest for her to touch him. His heart was beating like a drum.

"So are you," he whispered confidently between kisses. "Would you like me to fetch you a blanket?"

"That's not funny," she threaded her fingers through his hair, "you'll regret this tomorrow. I want you, Sherlock, but you need to think about it first."

"I want to stop thinking. I'm finding this effective." His lips found hers again firmly, insistently.

_Oh, I may be on the side of the angels... but don't think for one second that I am one of them._ Molly remembered hearing Sherlock say to Moriarty on the rooftop this morning, loud and clear through the speaker on her mobile.

They both wanted this, but for different reasons. She inhaled sharply as his fingers explored up under her shirt. Could she take what he was offering? One night together in the utter darkness, with no romance, no change to their friendship? Was she irresponsible enough to do this with him right now?

"You don't know how," she said finally, not realizing that she had been unbuttoning his shirt until she grazed his bare skin. She felt a moan rumble deep in his chest, and responded with an enthusiastic kiss to his sternum. One arm released her and she thought she heard the heavy fall of wool and clatter of buttons of his coat hitting the tile. He guided her down by feel and lay beside her on the expanse of silky lining and scratchy wool, pillowing her head on what felt like his bundled scarf.

"I've always trusted you, Molly Hooper."


	2. Chapter 2

The first rays of the sun penetrating the heavy curtains woke Sherlock into a state of immediate analysis. Sharp eyes followed the daisy chain pattern stitched in white on the thick yellow fabric, then trailed down to the unorthodox situation below.

He lay naked on his overcoat just inside the door of a little flat. The flat belonged to the equally naked woman wrapped in his arms, pillowed on his chest. It was still too dark to make out much, but he could feel her deep sleep breathing, her hair spread across them, the press of her geography against his. He remembered with a flush the way his body had responded last to hers last night, and carefully extricated himself from the tangle of limbs and fabric before it could happen again.

From above he could see the ring of their mingled clothing, shoes, the contents of Molly's spilled purse, the overcoat and Molly in middle. Nude and quickly chilled, he wiped his hands down his face as he thought, staring down at her. She had only made it about a metre in the door before he had stopped her. _Seduced her?_ The question floated across his mind and he waved it away before it could take up lodgings in the mind palace.

If he remembered correctly he had obligations in this sort of scenario. Molly must be made comfortable, treated respectfully, and then they could have the discussion where he reminded her that it had been a purely physical activity, he was married to his work, and that he had no romantic feelings for her. She shivered in her sleep, looking vulnerable. He began planning how he would phrase his talk with her while he bundled her up in his coat, scooped her up gently, and placed her on the tiny floral sofa. He pushed her hair off of her face and turned up the coat collar to warm her neck and cover the evidence.

He would like to believe that he had no feelings about this situation, but the truth was that he had crossed a dangerous line. The best thing for him would be to pretend it had never happened, and delete last night. Sounds, touches, and especially tastes all needed to go. Molly was his pathologist and friend, and neither as a pathologist nor a friend should he know her as intimately as he did now. The old King James Bible conceit of using _knowing_ as a synonym for intercourse suddenly made sense. Sherlock _knew_ Molly, and he feared, Molly _knew_ Sherlock.

The bathroom was through her bedroom, and as he crossed it he avoided looking at her bed. Somehow the activities of the previous night felt less real since they had not happened in a traditional space. Her bathroom was spotless and in the clean room he could smell himself. It was a foreign blend of him and her, smoke and wool, and after his shower he smelled jasmine and vanilla on his skin from her soap. Feeling required to tidy up after himself the way he never would at 221B, he wiped the mirror with his towel, stopping mid-swipe.

There, on the side of Sherlock's pale neck, was a bright red patch of mottled skin. He only vaguely remembered receiving it, believing himself preoccupied at the time. The shirt collar wouldn't begin to cover it.

A self-diagnostic confirmed that he did actually feel different without his much-maligned virginity. While he did not feel any urgency to immediately repeat the deed, he could recognize why someone ordinary would crave that sort of release. He had been clean from drugs for many years now, and the high he had received under Molly's tutelage had indeed given his mind a much-needed break, rivaling many of his common current methods. He would have to remember that as he started his new cases: taking down Moriarty's network and clearing his name.

He dressed in the wrinkled clothes he had picked up off of the floor, and placed Molly's clothes in her hamper. With regret he thought that he should leave his distinctive black overcoat with Molly. It would identify him immediately, she was sleeping in it, and it likely needed a run through the cleaners after the past 48 hours.

Molly woke to the smell of coffee not long after. Sherlock could hear the change in her breathing pattern from his seat on the floor, his back against the sofa where she lay. He swirled the coffee in the be-kittened mug. Her coffee was higher quality than what John usually bought, darker and bitterer than he would have expected from mild little Doctor Hooper. It had taken three sugars for Sherlock to tame the flavour, which he had had to find in her tiny baking pantry. That, and the lack of milk in the fridge suggested that Molly took her coffee straight from press.

"We are friends, are we not, Molly?" He asked, his voice lower in pitch than usual from the feeling of vulnerability he now had around her.

"Mmm-hmm," she agreed sleepily, rolling towards the sound of his voice. "Oh my god," she said suddenly. She sat up, the coat slipping off her shoulders before she caught it. Her face burned red as she saw his coat, her body, him. With his peripheries he examined her expression, wishing he could read emotions as clearly as she did. She ran her fingers through her hair to pull it away from her face and he saw not just one red marks but many down the sides of her neck, trailing lower.

"What do friends do in this situation, then?"

"Give me a moment, Sherlock, I need to catch up," Molly responded, getting her bearings. "What's the date today?"

He told her, confused. She blew out a sigh of relief and adjusted his coat.

"Safe, then. Are we still friends?"

"I certainly hope so."

"So what now?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, prepared to start his speech, but Molly answered her own question.

"This didn't mean anything, romantically, Sherlock. I hope you know that, even if I was your first."

Surprised at her gently warning tone, he merely nodded.

"Even if we were remotely romantically compatible, this is hardly the time to experiment with relationships. My work has to come first, as does yours."

"That's… right," he agreed slowly.

"I've been attracted to you quite some time, and we were both upset and in need of distraction last night. It happened, but that doesn't mean it will happen again."

He nodded, amazing himself by becoming a little disappointed with being on the receiving end of this chat. It made more sense when he said it.

Molly reached over and squeezed his shoulder. She dropped a kiss on his cheek.

"For what it's worth, Sherlock Holmes, you were really very lovely."

She slid out of his coat and sidled naked to the bathroom without a glance behind her, finger combing her long red hair. He watched her, cheeks turning pink. When the water of the shower clicked on he realized he was still staring at where she had been.

Suddenly his plans seemed less urgent. She thought that he'd been lovely. He didn't have the vocabulary to tell her that he felt like he'd left more than a literal part of him inside of her. She _knew_ him, and she was as prepared to let him go as he had been to leave. The feeling was strange and Sherlock didn't like it. Why hadn't he left yet?

_Go now_, he told himself,_ before she comes back with those eyes, that brain, that unfathomable heart._ He stood, brushing cat hair off of his trousers. Greyhound energy returning, he gathered his things, tied his scarf carefully, left the overcoat with a forlorn glance, and stepped out into the cheerless corridor.

In the shower, Molly heard the sound that she had been waiting for: Sherlock leaving without saying goodbye. She took a frustrated breath, annoyed with both herself and with him. What had they been thinking, honestly! As if they needed this complication now. And the funeral would be awkward tomorrow, trying to cover love bites caused by the recently deceased.

Somehow Molly got through the next day in a haze of tea sandwiches and awkward hugs. Lestrade told her to give him a call when she felt like some company (he was no longer wearing his wedding ring), and Mrs Hudson had asked her between nose blows if she needed a new flat. The idea of moving into 221B in Sherlock and John's absence felt like moving into a haunted house, and she politely declined.

"You should have taken Mrs Hudson up on her offer."

Molly was woken in the middle of the night by a deep voice in the darkness. Her bed was weighed down, and she could see the silhouette of Sherlock sitting on the end of her mattress.

"How long have you been there," she gasped. "Sherlock, this is creepy."

He ignored her, and carried on.

"It would be nice to have you at 221B to look after Mrs Hudson."

"I imagine that your flat is still under enough surveillance that you wouldn't be able to sneak into my bedroom at night, that's a plus."

He seemed to consider this.

"Quite possibly. Do you mind if I talk at you for a little while? I need to think."

"I'm already awake, you might as well," she sighed, leaning back into the pillows and trying not to think about her rapidly approaching alarm time. The earliest lights of predawn were peeking through the curtains

"Thank you," he responded, and then launched into a serious of connected observations about Moriarty's network. Molly followed along, but other than occasional supportive noises was more an audience than a participant. He got up to pace a few times, and finally sprawled across the other side of the bed. She could see his hands gesturing in the air as he spoke.

"Wait, wait, no," she interrupted finally. "That just doesn't make sense."

"Of course it does," Sherlock replied immediately, taken aback.

"There's no way arsenic would present itself that way in the victim, it would have to be a different poison, which would unravel your tapioca killer theo-"

Molly was cut off by Sherlock's mouth on hers. He tasted of cigarettes and tea, and kissed her with an urgency that left her breathless. Gathering her against him, it felt like he was trying to press her body through his. Molly pushed him away a little, long enough to speak.

"What are you thinking of, Sherlock Holmes? We decided last night was a mistake."

His eyes were intent on hers, his mouth red and tender already, his curly hair askew from her hands.

"It was. I have a feeling tonight will be too. Later today I leave for the Czech Republic, I doubt I'll be back in England for at least a year."

Molly considered this briefly. Plenty of time for her wounded heart to heal later. She rolled herself on top of him, pulling at the buttons of his indecently tight shirt.

This time there was no darkness to hide in.


	3. Chapter 3

Cold air rushed up the side of the red brick flat, covering Sherlock's bare chest and arms in bumps. He pulled at the cigarette and leaned back against the frigid wall.

Molly had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to smoke in her home, so he had contented himself with merely pulling on trousers as the fog rolled in. Chilly as it was outside, he felt heat pooling inside of him. This second night with Molly had been remarkable, a new terrifyingly intimate experience. The morning light had revealed her eyes, her expressions, her body, the glimmer of dawn on her skin and in her hair. He had seen exactly what they had done together, and he knew that she had seen all of him.

Any question of vulnerability had been answered in the worst way possible. He had returned to her uninvited. He had initiated their second encounter, despite her warning. It was Sherlock, not Molly, displaying an alarming beginning of sentiment.

"Let's not make this a habit," he heard from the door. "You'll make me terribly late for work." Molly was dressed for the lab, her hair neatly brushed and braided up, bag over shoulder. He moved to go in to her and she raised a hand to stop him. "No, no, finish your cigarette, I need to get going." He flicked it aside and stood in front of her, not touching.

"I-" Sherlock was at a loss for words. He wanted to say something friendly but non-committal. Molly chastely pecked him on the cheek, and toyed with his hair a moment. It felt good.

"So absurdly handsome." she said fondly. "Come visit me when you're finished chasing down the bad guys, and be safe." With a cheery smile she turned away. Sherlock surprised himself by catching her hand. She watched him slowly raise it to his lips.

It tickled and made her feel terribly awkward.

"Thank you, Molly." His eyes were intense, and she had the feeling that if she didn't go now she would be missing work entirely.

"Must dash," she exclaimed, pretending not to notice his mood. She slid her hand away and made a hasty exit. She called back over her shoulder, "Go inside before you freeze!"

Sherlock felt a little wounded. That was hardly an appropriate farewell for what he had told her would likely be a year.

There was no point staying in the flat without her. He dressed hastily, locating where his clothes had landed in the flurry of activity hours earlier. One broken button left a small gap in his shirt, but he tied his scarf to conceal it, and shrugged on his jacket and shooed the cat off of his new overcoat. A quick check in the mirror revealed the marks on his neck appeared to have grown only more vibrant, and he adjusted the scarf again.

Standing at the door, hand extended towards the knob, Sherlock made a split second decision. He tried not to think about what he was doing as he strode purposefully towards the bookshelf, pulled down Molly's tiny, framed graduation photo, and shoved it in his pocket. The cat watching him with knowing eyes, and he left, locking the door with the spare key Molly had given him before the incident of the roof of St Barts.

Downstairs he was met by the usual sleek black car, complete with the usual silent woman in black texting away. He ignored Mycroft's assistant, leaning back against the seat.

"_It makes sense that you feel disconnected," Molly had told him, half-asleep on his chest. "You've lost your identity, your friends, some of your self-respect to Moriarty, and more recently, your innocence." This last part she had said wryly, stroking him lightly down his hip. He had inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around her more tightly. "So much of what made you who you are is gone, however temporarily."_

_Voicing a concern that had been eating at him, he tried to avoid her eyes._

"_You said that you would be willing to help me even if I wasn't everything you or I thought that I was. With everything I've lost how can you still respect me?"_

_She laughed sleepily, pressing a kiss to his throat._

"_You sound like a chamber maid who has been dallying with the footman. I haven't ruined you, Sherlock. Putting your anatomy in mine doesn't change things unless you let it. It's all chemicals, hormones, muscular and nervous reactions. We both like science, just enjoy being part of the experiment."_

_She made it sound so callous, so impersonal. He couldn't deny that the way he was feeling was highly unscientific. Molly pulled back to read his face. She realized that she had misunderstood and tried to make amends._

"_You're still a raving genius and annoyingly brilliant in addition to now being a fabulous shag, you know. I'm sure when this is all over, terribly boring, average people will be knocking down your door with fascinating cases, begging for the world's only consulting detect-"_

_Sherlock flipped them over, bracing his hands on either side of his head._

"_Do be quiet, Molly." He kissed her grin away, guiding her legs back up around him._

It was several months later that Molly found Sherlock lurking in the darkness of the staff locker room. She caught sight of him in the tiny mirror and stifled a surprised gasp.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered to the reflection. "There are cameras everywhere."

"Calculated risk," he said. "I need to see a body."

She raised an eyebrow. _That had better not be a pick up line._

"Mr Chillingworth."

"He came in this morning, but you can't go into the lab, it's too closely monitored."

"Mycroft has given me one hour. The hospital will go on an emergency lock down, the cameras will malfunction along with all non-essential services."

"Starting when?"

Sherlock was texting on his mobile, she wasn't sure if he had heard her.

"Now."

Alarms began sounding all over the building. He grabbed her hand, pulling her back into the lab while the doors swung automatically shut. They clicked menacingly behind her, shutting out the noise. The lights of the corridor that overlooked the morgue went out, and she watched the red indicator lights of the cameras blink out one by one.

"There isn't much time," she said, checking her list for the correct cooler number while she pulled on gloves. Sherlock threw his coat and jacket onto the counter top near his favourite workstation and helped her transfer Mr Chillingworth onto the autopsy table. "What are you looking for?"

"I don't know yet," he murmured, beginning to examine the corpse of the middle-aged man. "What was the cause of death?"

"Pneumonia, officially, but he showed signs of dehydration, malnutrition, and his liver and kidneys were beginning to fail."

"Teeth?"

"Advanced decay."

"Prisoner?"

She thought a moment, staring at the bones showing on what was once likely a plump, comfortable frame, and followed Sherlock's connections.

"Could fit the profile of a captive."

"Any strange markings?"

"Scars on the feet, they appear to be rat bites. I measured them against the dental pattern and average jaw size of a common rat and… what?" She trailed off, realizing that Sherlock was staring at her with a strange expression.

"I missed you," he said suddenly, then looked alarmed, like the words hadn't left his own mouth.

"I, um, it's been awhile, hasn't it, Sherlock." Molly answered slowly, pulling the sheet back up over Mr Chillingworth's body.

"You're not like the rest of them, you know," he said quietly, from the other side of the corpse. They put him back on his shelf and slide in the drawer.

"You're not the first to think so," she said coolly, peeling off her gloves, feeling exposed with nothing now between their bodies.

"You understand." He touched her face gently, eyes wide.

"You're on something of a timeline, remember?"

"Why are you always hurrying me along?" His fingers brushed her lips.

She pulled away and started filing Mr Chillingworth's reports back in the cabinet.

"Because when your time lapses you will be stranded in potentially the most dangerous place in the world for you to be."

"I can find my way out of here easily, Mycroft or no," he countered with confidence bordering on arrogance. He came up behind her, and she saw over her shoulder that his eyes were dark, his mouth set stubbornly. "What happened to the Molly Hooper who was happy to see me?"

Molly spun and faced him, her eyes blazing.

"We've complicated things, Sherlock. You have complicated things."

"I believe you were a somewhat eager participant in those complications," he said defensively.

"Goodness knows my consent was enthusiastic, but you need to respect that I, unlike you, embrace sentiment. It's easy to say once or even twice didn't mean anything, we were caught up in the moment or just expressing pent up frustrations or some such nonsense, but if you're going to keep coming back here and connecting with me on an emotional level, the result is going to be emotional whether intended or not!"

Molly watched Sherlock process this information, her brow furrowed. She shoved her hands in her pocket so she wouldn't be tempted to touch him now that he was so close. The button she had torn from his white shirt had been inexpertly repaired in a slightly different colour thread.

Sherlock took her right hand back out of her pocket and slowly brought it up. For a moment she thought that he was going to kiss it like he had that morning on the balcony, but he placed it carefully under his jaw and pressed his overtop. Blood pounded under his skin, his pulse elevated.

"Physical reaction," she disqualified. "Not emotional."

Looking pained, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pulled out a photo worn at the edges, a photo of a young woman with long brown-red hair and a mortarboard cap.

"Sentiment," he said softly.

"Theft," she returned crisply, watching him tuck the photo away into the plastic wallet sleeve before she could ask for it back.

He drew a deep breath.

"Would it help if I explained that I also seem to be trying to repress an emotional reaction to the intimacy we've shared?"

Part of her wanted to believe him, but she didn't want to go back to being the unrequited lovesick version of herself she had despised.

"I've seen you turn on the charm to get what you want before, Mr Holmes."

"And what is it you believe I am trying to get, Dr Hooper," he snapped, looming over her.

"I think you've got a taste for sex now, and you don't kn-"

Sherlock stole the words out of her mouth, and replaced them with his tongue. Frustrated that he was using this tactic again, she nipped his lip hard. He wrapped his arms around her and carefully lifted her onto the lab table so their faces were at equal height.

"Do you think if sex was all I was after I couldn't find it in the great city of London?" He was offended now. "Do you think there's another Molly Hooper out there? You're not interchangeable with other women. There's only one of you and as long as you're willing, I refuse to consider a lesser specimen."

Molly looked at him with suspicion. He had the most beautiful flush creeping down his neck as his anger drained to discomfort, but she didn't want this to go any further unless they were on the same page.

"To be clear, was that the Sherlock Holmes way of saying that I'm the only girl for you?"

A muscle near his eye twitched. He nodded slowly, face hard.

"And what you're thinking is that you would like our arrangement to be exclusive?"

Another twitch, another nod. He pulled her to the counter's edge so she was flush against his body.

"And I could expect an appropriate amount of sentiment from you?"

"Within reason," he answered quickly, burying his nose in her hair.

"Within reason," she repeated, satisfied. Molly toyed with his trouser button. "How much time is left of your hour?"

"Twenty-seven minutes," he said crisply, pushing aside the lab glass and sample dishes behind her while he went in for a kiss.

"Careful, those contain cholera," she murmured sexily. Sherlock made a noise of interest, intending to pocket one later. It was only a matter of seconds before all of the relevant buttons and fastening had been opened on their clothing, and after a long lingering kiss, Sherlock intended to try his hand at an acceptable level of sentiment.

He mentally reviewed several clichéd options, and rejected them quickly. He assumed she would be as little interested in receiving a lame pseudo-romantic line as he would be in delivering it. Scrapping the idea of words, he focused on the physical, trying to memorize her body and how she responded. He wouldn't say she was beautiful, it would be redundant, she must already know. Afraid of what foolish things he might say in the heat of the moment, he closed his eyes.

Molly pulled back to see his face as they joined. He shuddered, and then his eyes flew wide open, finding hers. He didn't know what she saw there, but she raised a hand to his cheek, her eyes warm.

"Ah, there's the sentiment."

She could see his whole being in his eyes, and knew, just for the moment, he entirely belonged to her.

Twenty-six and a half minutes later Sherlock slid into the open door of the usual black car, slightly out of breath.

"Mr Chillingworth?" Mycroft asked from behind a newspaper.

"Confirmed. It was rats."

"And how did you leave Dr Hooper," he asked wryly.

"Radiant."

"Is she still harbouring a school girl crush on you?"

"Hardly, Mycroft," Sherlock said to the window with a smirk, settling into the leather seats.

It took only one glance for Mycroft to deduce the entire situation.

"Leave her alone until all this is through, Sherlock, or I will pack her off to the Outer Hebrides." Mycroft's tone was icy. His ears, however, were slightly pink.


End file.
